Dream Catch Me
by nearsightedness
Summary: In which Shuuhei learns about hope.  [Post SS arc, SPOILERS] [Shuuheicentric] [no pairings, at least only lightly suggested or unrequited ones] [feedback and concrit appreciated]


**Title:** Dream Catch Me  
**Pairing/Characters:** Shuuhei-centric, but also features Matsumoto, Renji, Kira, Ukitake, Tetsuzaemon, Shuuhei's zanpakutou, and Rukia. Implied Kira+Gin (onesided), GinRan, and light Shuuhei+Rukia.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** Swearing, spoilers for the end of the SS arc.  
**Word count:** Approx. 5500 words. It sort of... ran away from me.  
**Author's note:** The song-lyrics-used-as-alternate-scene-breaks are all taken from Newton Faulkner's "Dream Catch Me" (which is also, obviously, the namesake of a fic). This was written for jaina, who prompted "a public affair" for the shuuruki birthday fic-offer... thing. (I swear the actual fic is more articulate than this).  
**Summary:** Shuuhei learns about hope.

It was odd, even perverse; but in the days following Tousen's betrayal, Shuuhei found himself smiling often. 

_And I cannot believe I'm falling / That's where I'm going_

Sometimes it hit Shuuhei all at once, like a wave, fragmented memories everything that had happened packed into the span of a few seconds. He would go perfectly still, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing, and there would be words springing into his head unbidden: _Tousen-taichou is gone, Aizen-taichou, Ichimaru-taichou, they're all traitors, Hinamori is hurt, Soul Society is at war, I am alone._ The hurt would echo in the hollow of his chest, and he would want to move but not know which way to turn, want to cradle his head in his hands and tear at his hair, press his eyes shut and never open them again.

But then he would think about those words—_I am alone_. And then slowly, secretly, the tide would reverse. He would smile and return to his paperwork. Although a few moments later he would carefully wipe his expression blank again, still he had smiled. How could he not smile?

_I am alone._

The notion was just too ridiculous.

_You do so much / That you don't know_

Working late, stacks of paperwork on the desk before him and brush in hand, Shuuhei thought about Abarai. There were years, decades of interactions there to think about, and no doubt he could fill books with his more metaphysical thoughts on Abarai; but Shuuhei was thinking, specifically, of how Abarai would come to visit him occasionally, just to talk a bit. Shuuhei knew that Kuchiki-taichou was a hard-working man who demanded hard work in all his subordinates, as though he was the sun and they moons, reflecting his discipline and dedication. He knew that Abarai no doubt found it difficult to snatch even fifteen minutes; but he managed anyways.

Shuuhei thought about how Abarai apologized, asked if he was interrupting, if Shuuhei had work to do and didn't have the time to spare—and how he would understand, it was fine, he could drop by later. Shuuhei thought, too, about how Abarai awkwardly asked how he was, if he was doing all right. Abarai had all the subtlety of an avalanche, but although Shuuhei had never approved of destruction he often found it difficult to keep from grinning, even laughing, whenever Abarai shifted, uncomfortable with the imminent proximity of emotions.

Knowing Abarai's general lack of tolerance for what Shuuhei had once heard him term "girly shit" (tears, emotional pain, self-pity, romanticism, hair-braiding—now _that_ had been a memorable incident), Shuuhei always said, quite seriously, that he was fine, thank you, and yes, he had time to talk. And they did talk, then, and even if they didn't talk about anything meaningful because all the meaningful stuff was still too threaded through with recent hurt, and even if the conversations often trickled out and it ended in Shuuhei staring at his inkwell and Abarai staring at the doorway, it was all right. The silence was comfortable, and Shuuhei knew that eventually, Abarai would drop in again and ask, just as awkwardly as before, about Shuuhei's well-being.

Shuuhei found himself inexplicably smiling again, a constrained smile that wouldn't seem to leave his lips.

_See you as a descant soul / in the setting sun_

How he had ended up drinking with Matsumoto again, Shuuhei wasn't _quite_ sure. It was probably just because she was practically a force of nature, and one seemed to be able to say no to her. But he was still (relatively) sober, so it was all right in any case. Kira wasn't with them this time. Matsumoto hadn't mentioned it and Shuuhei hadn't asked—he kept on thinking that she had been close to Ichimaru, loved him, even, and this cheerfulness of hers must be an act. He was afraid, somehow, that if he pushed, something delicately balanced in her heart might fall and break.

"So!" said Matsumoto, raising her sake cup and looking at Shuuhei; he, belatedly, followed suit. "To the new interim captain of the ninth!" She took a gulp of the drink and then set it down with a satisfied sigh; she was smiling broadly. Shuuhei took a sip of his and forced a slight grin. "Does this mean I have to call you Hisagi-taichou now?" she asked teasingly.

"Ah, no!" said Shuuhei hastily, shaking his head. "I'm still fukutaichou officially, it's just that in effect I have the power of a captain in terms of giving orders and signing paperwork and so on."

Matsumoto laughed, a rich belly laugh. The bar was dimly lit and smoky, bustling with people and filled with the low hum of voices that attended any crowd, but her hair gleamed golden-red and her voice cut through the noise, like the prow of a ship smoothly parting choppy waters. "You're so precise, Hisagi-_taichou_," she said.

Something twisted inside him. "Don't call me that," he said quietly. "Please."

Now Matsumoto was frowning and Shuuhei wished he could grab the words from the air, from her ears, and yank them back; they were stupid, he should have kept his mouth shut, should have just let it pass by and wash into the backlog of time. "Why not? What's the matter?" With some people, the words would have been demanding, accusatory. With Matsumoto, they were just concerned.

"I—it's nothing."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course it's _something_, otherwise you wouldn't have said anything." A beat. "This is about Tousen, isn't it?"

One thing which Shuuhei found easy to forget about Matsumoto was how perceptive she was.

He looked away, studied the scarred and pitted tabletop. "N—it... it's nothing. Really, it's just stupid."

"I'll say it is!" said Matsumoto forcefully. Shuuhei looked up in surprise. "What's this? You think, what, it wouldn't be right for someone to call you Hisagi-taichou?"

"Well, yes," said Shuuhei. "It wouldn't be. I don't deserve..."

"Stop right there," Matsumoto broke in, even though he already had. "That's ridiculous. 'I don't deserve', 'I'm not good enough', 'I couldn't live up to', whatever it is that's going through your head—stop it." There was something fierce in Matsumoto's voice, and Shuuhei found he couldn't look away. "They twisted us, Shuuhei, they twisted us all to think that we're lesser and they're greater, and now they're gone and we have to fill the breach but we're _still lesser_. Well, you know what that is? That's bullshit." She spoke the word with a sharp punctuation of intonation. "They're gone, and we don't have to define ourselves by them any more."

After a few seconds, Shuuhei said, "But what about you and Ichimaru-tai—" He broke off there, and they both pretended that he had meant to end it at "maru".

"What _about_ me and Gin?" asked Matsumoto. "He left. He's gone, he's probably not coming back, and if he ever does I'll kick his ass. I don't give a damn about him, why should I?"

"I don't believe you."

There was real anger in Matsumoto's face then. "_You_ don't believe me? What, you think I'm secretly weeping after him? You think I'm just putting on a tough act for everybody's benefit? I wouldn't do that! _I'm_ not dishonest! And if you don't believe me, well, so what, it's still the truth, no matter what you _believe_!"

In the last few moments of her little speech, Shuuhei realized, deep in his bones, that she was not speaking as someone airing their denial: she was just laying down the facts. And he felt horrible for what he had insinuated and said, in a rushed voice, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... it was stupid of me. You're right. I suppose that it's... I'm just not sure..."

"Don't," said Matsumoto quietly. "You have to stop thinking that way, Shuuhei. You _have_ to, all right?" She was looking at him earnestly. "For all our sakes. And don't think that that's me laying a millstone of responsibility around your neck or anything!" she added. "We're all here for you, and if you forget that I'll kick _your_ ass. Got it?"

Slowly, Shuuhei nodded. "I've got it," he said. "And..." The guilt jumped inside him again, like a beached fish. "I am sorry."

"Oh, don't worry about it!" she exclaimed, laughing now. "You worry too much. You really have to learn how to just let go, Shuuhei." She smiled at him, warm as midsummer day.

Shuuhei smiled back.

_Where are you going / Hold it close, won't let this go_

There was work Shuuhei had to do; stacks of paperwork to look over, missions to assign and orders to give, disputes to mediate and punishments to decide. But it didn't matter because Kira wasn't all right, and that was more important than documents to sign or hard-headed subordinates to knock some sense into.

He had come upon Kira on his return from delivering some important paperwork to the First Division headquarters. The papers seemed, suddenly, rather less important, when Shuuhei's calm, concerned greeting had been met with a blank stare. For a few moments, he'd stood there, in the sun-flooded corridor, feeling thrown and lost—Kira's reaction was all wrong. _Something_ was wrong. Then he had stepped forward and reached out to put a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Oi," Shuuhei said. "Are you all right?" Kira looked up, blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." Kira looked down at his hands, which were empty. "I was going to pick up some paperwork..."

"So..." Shuuhei's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What happened?"

Kira went still, in both body and face, and stared at the ground. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know why I'm doing this any more. Any of it."

Shuuhei opened his mouth; closed it again; and then wondered what he could say to that.

He thought that maybe he should yell at Kira, slap him with words, just the way Matsumoto had done to him. But then it struck him: if he did that, Kira would break. He hadn't thought of it that way before—that Matsumoto pushed him as a form of respect—because he was strong, strong enough to handle it. The thought gave him pause, and something glowed in him briefly.

Then he thought about Kira, and how _Kira_ could not be strong enough to handle pushing. Kira was weak—not _generally_; but years with Ichimaru had worn him down somehow and now, in the present, he was vulnerable and lost—and where Shuuhei needed to be yelled at Kira needed to be protected. Ichimaru had protected him, perhaps, in a twisted way; but now Ichimaru was gone, and Kira—

Shuuhei wasn't even quite sure.

"To do it..." Shuuhei said slowly, each word drawn out by fear. He was afraid; afraid that he would say exactly the wrong thing, afraid of the blankness in his mind, afraid of where he was conjuring these words from. What if they only did harm? "It's your choice," he finished quietly.

Kira made a few small noises, the starts of sentences killed before they could truly be born. "I," he said finally. "I loved him."

Shuuhei didn't have to ask who Kira meant. Nor could he have any doubt, really, given the odd way in which Kira was staring at the wall, about the fact that Kira meant more than the love that existed between any lieutenant and his (or, thought Shuuhei, seeing a wide smile and dark hair gathered in a bun in his mind's eye, her) captain. "It's your choice," he repeated steadily. He knew it wasn't enough. What could he say?

Abruptly, Kira pushed past him and set off down the hall without another word. Shuuhei looked after him and felt something sick and heavy coiled in his chest. He could have, should have said something more, something _better_. Something that would change things.

But then, since when had he had the power to change things? Since when had he even had the power to _protect_ things?

The question seemed to resound through Shuuhei's very bones. He had no power.

No power. Tousen—

"_They're gone, and we don't have to define ourselves by them any more."_

Very slowly, Shuuhei set off again, in the opposite direction to Kira, barely looking where he was going. _Perhaps it's time to redefine._ The rhyme of those words made him smile, suddenly, broadly, whimsically, though it faded soon.

He knew what he had to do.

_See you as a mountain / A fountain of god_

Inhaling deeply, Shuuhei closed his eyes. The clear, cool air filled his lungs; the sensation was almost a mild burn. He felt light-headed, light-hearted, as though he was floating. Blood coursed through his veins and he could hear his heart beating in his ears, underneath the whistle of the wind.

Shuuhei opened his eyes. They stung and watered, although he squinted against the wind. Forcing himself to ignore it, he looked out over the landscape. At the foot of the mountain on which he stood, the terrain opened out into plains covered in tall brown grasses, spliced through with rivers. The sky was a dusty blue, dotted with wispy clouds. There were patches of snow covering the rocks around him, and goosebumps rippled on his bare arms.

_You have found the time to visit,_ said Ikari behind him. The voice reverberated in his mind, cutting across all of his own thoughts. Shuuhei had forgotten just how overwhelming it was. Turning, so that the wind now blew his hair against his skull from the back, dark strands flying into his eyes, he regarded the armoured elephant.

"I have," he said.

_You do not visit unless you want something from me._

Standing on a small, smooth and even patch of snowless rock, Ikari blended into its surroundings. It was monolithic and quite still, leathery gray feet planted on the ground like four ancient, weathered trees, trunk curled towards its body. Its tusks, curved and darkened ivory, always gave Shuuhei pause; it was easy to forget how fearsome they were close-up. The armour, hundreds of plates of iron woven onto thick leather, covering Ikari's torso and head, gleamed in the sunlight. Shuuhei wondered, if zanpakutous were a reflection of the wielder's soul, and the spirits part of it, what Ikari said about him.

"I do not want anything now," he said.

_Ridiculous. Of course you want something. You are wanting, Shuuhei._

Shuuhei hesitated, unsure what to say. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked, finally, slowly. There was fear in his heart, cold like a patch of snow hidden beneath a thick bush after all the rest had melted. He was not sure where it came from. He saw Kira in his mind's eye, Kira with his utter lack of want—was that perfection? To be perfectly broken? Was it his greatest flaw, to _want_, to want to help?

_No._

Ikari sounded amused, and Shuuhei recognized that amusement—it was a very private, wry sort of amusement. It was his own amusement. The single word might have been one he had said or thought himself, and perhaps it was: so Shuuhei could believe it. It was _his_.

The fear dissipated. What was there to be afraid of?

_And yes,_ said Ikari. _Always afraid, too._

Shuuhei laughed. He had forgotten how this was, to be known so completely. It was beautiful. Something was starting to form in the back of his mind. He did not touch it, did not try to put a name to it yet—it was still fragile, like a sapling. He did not want to break it.

"I don't want..." Shuuhei said, watching Ikari with a measuring gaze, "to be afraid any more."

_What you want is to no longer be afraid._

"Yes." The word was ripe on his tongue. He thought about Tousen, and what it had been like to stand at his side. He wanted. He wanted that back.

_I cannot grant your wish,_ said Ikari. The wind was almost unbearably loud, and Shuuhei's mind was utterly silent. He did not know what to say. _Tousen is gone._ With a jolt, going right through his solar plexus, Shuuhei realized that Ikari knew. But that was stupid, of course Ikari knew. He was stupid. Fool. Always _wanting_. Wanting to—

Wanting to help Kira. Wanting to...

Regarding Ikari's feet, Shuuhei thought about that feeling in the back of his head, driving at it straight on with his mind. It was strong, it would be strong. _He_ was strong.

The notion did not break. Ikari did not move, standing there quietly like a reflection of everything Shuuhei didn't know but _could_. There were words in Shuuhei's mind again.

"Maybe not," Shuuhei replied, understanding coming like the sun from behind a cloud. "But _I_ can." Ikari's eyes were dark and unfathomable.

_Go, child._ The wind seemed to lessen. _You should not be wasting your time here. Come back when you are in the middle of your path._

Once again, Shuuhei turned, and as he stepped off the ridge on which he had stood, into the howling air, he closed his eyes and let the world dissolve around him, into another. A smile curved on his lips, and he thought that the beginning felt like the wind clawing at his face.

_Do anything I want / Be anyone I wanna be_

Iba came to visit him to ask if he wanted to go out drinking.

"Eh?" asked Shuuhei intelligently. Belatedly, his mind caught up with the events of the past few seconds: someone had knocked on his door, pulled it open without waiting for an answer, and now Iba was standing there.

"Dammit, Hisagi, get your attention off your paperwork for two seconds, would you?" said Iba with a good-natured grin. "I asked if you wanted to head out to a bar in Rukongai tonight, with me'n Rangiku-san."

Shuuhei blinked. "I—ah—Iba, shouldn't you be working right now?"

From behind his sunglasses, Iba's stare was incredulous. "You've gotta be kidding me, right? Paperwork or something? I've finished all I've got to do today. Now just answer the question.

Giving it a few moments of contemplation, Shuuhei shook his head. "No. I really can't."

Iba, frowning, was silent for a while. Shuuhei looked away awkwardly, unsure how to interpret the man's expression. "You know, you've been turning down offers to spend time with us a lot," said Iba. "Always doing your paperwork—taking on more than you have to—"

"I am not." Shuuhei's voice was quiet but his tone was one of tightly controlled anger. "The Gotei is in a disarray, Iba. There are a total of three divisions without a captain—I have been appointed the interim captain for one, but that leaves two with no head. All important decisions regarding these divisions must be made jointly in a captain's meeting. Thinking in terms of the future, someone has to do the paperwork which would normally be done by the captains. Unless we want large gaps in the archives from this period. I don't think I even have to point out that that would be a bad thing."

"You've got all your pretty excuses," said Iba, "but the fact of it is, Hisagi, you're avoiding us—"

"I am _not_!" As he spoke, Shuuhei's left hand clenched into a fist. How could Iba think that of him? "Why would I do that?" he demanded.

"You don't want to talk about things, Hisagi, that's why. When it comes to your own emotions, you're a cagey bastard, and don't try to deny it. If you're not trying to avoid your friends, why won't you come out drinking tonight?"

"Because," snapped Shuuhei, "I've already promised one of my subordinates that I'll be helping him with his training tonight. Giving him some one-on-one tutoring in night fighting."

There was an odd, quiet but deep-seated sense of satisfaction for Shuuhei to see Iba blink, so obviously taken aback. "Look," continued Shuuhei, speaking more softly if not necessarily more calmly, "I'm not avoiding you. Any of you. I'm just..." He trailed off, embarrassed by the almost plaintive helplessness of his voice, but forcing himself to go on—this time, he wouldn't be silent. "I'm trying to help people," he said. "The Gotei is comprised of people. So many people. It's easy to forget that, and I'm trying not to, and I'm trying to help them. But I—care about you all, too. My friends, everybody on the more personal level. I try to combine those... 'levels' as often as possible. Sometimes the balance is difficult to strike."

Taking a deep breath, Shuuhei ran a hand through his hair and looked up, meeting Iba's eyes levelly. "If you ever really notice me tipping that balance too far, then by all means, stop me. But I'm all right, Iba. I'm stronger than—I _am_ strong." It felt odd, to say that and really believe it. "I've got my sense of perspective intact, you've all made sure of that." He paused, swallowed. "Thank you. I'm grateful to all of you." His mouth pulled to the side wryly. "You've done your work well."

In the wake of silence, Shuuhei wanted to bury his head in his hands, or maybe sink under his desk and hope Iba went away. He could feel his ears burning. What stupid things to say. But they couldn't be unsaid now. This was, he thought, a lesson in why it was always better for him to keep his mouth shut.

And then he realized that Iba was smiling.

"You're a good kid, Hisagi."

Shuuhei exhaled very shakily; something which had been knotted in his stomach was starting to come undone. "So people have told me."

"And you'd better believe it, or—"

"I think I've heard this one from Rangiku-san," interrupted Shuuhei. Then, suddenly, a thought struck him, and his face went quite serious. "Iba," he said, before the other man could continue.

"Eh? What is it now?"

Shuuhei was silent for a while. Then, finally: "I want to achieve bankai."

There was a tingling sensation of heat around his ears again. And then he realized that Iba was laughing, laughing and laughing—but not mockingly. Not mockingly at all. Shuuhei's eyes widened as Iba stepped forward, and then widened more when he reached across the desk and clapped Shuuhei on the back. "Good kid," said Iba. "Always giving yourself more work, huh?" His eyes were filled with a depth of warmth that made Shuuhei draw in his breath.

"I suppose so," he said.

"You know," said Iba thoughtfully, stepping back again, "I never thought I'd say this, but you should probably go to that moron Madarame. I hear he's been giving lessons, to Ayasegawa and Rangiku-san. Can't say I'd feel bad about saddling him with another student." He grinned, all teeth and sharp cunning.

Shuuhei did not grin in return; he smiled, an expression which stole across his face before he even noticed it, soft and open.

_Dream catch me when I fall / or else I won't come back at all_

Shuuhei had not expected to be accosted by Kuchiki Rukia, so when it happened, for a moment he could only look at her and blink. "Hisagi-fukutaichou," she had said, "how are you?"

They had passed each other in the halls of Sereitei before. He had expected this to be just another one of those occasions, two near-strangers passing each other by, and so when she had addressed him he had already almost walked right past her. His reply was belated. "Ah—I'm well, thank you, Kuchiki-san," he said. It didn't even occur to him to refer to her as _Kuchiki-sama_.

Then his expression shifted to one of concern. "And how are you? You've recovered fully, I trust?"

Someone putting their fist right through your ribcage, he thought, must hurt.

"I am in excellent health, thank you," she replied, her words spoken with a precision that seemed odd, to Shuuhei. He took the opportunity to really look at her, perhaps for the first time; before, his gaze had always slid off her halfway through his examination. Perhaps it was because there was just so little to look at—he had never really noticed before how slight she truly was. No doubt because she carried such poise and dignity, walking upon them like stilts, wearing them like armour.

Shuuhei could not say how he understood all this about her—all this beneath her blue-gray eyes and economically styled black hair and pale skin—but he did. He did not know Kuchiki Rukia, but he rather thought that in a way, he did—beyond the drunken confessions of Abarai over the years, that was.

They stood awkwardly there for a few moments. Shuuhei knew that she had something to say; he could see it in the way she glanced to one side, then the other, then briefly met his gaze, and drew in her breath somewhat sharply then let it out in silent sighs. "Is there something...?" he asked her.

"I am sorry for your loss," she said abruptly.

For a while, Shuuhei was silent, watching her with his surprise, no doubt, written all across his face. He was trying to process not what she had said, but what she had _thought_. What people said, Shuuhei found, was inevitably easy to decipher; just a bead of sounds strung together. It was the deeper nature of the beads, and the fingers which worked them, that sometimes baffled Shuuhei.

It struck him in a heartbeat: she meant only what she had said.

Kuchiki was not trying to discreetly pry into his state of mind. She was not worrying, not gathering information. She was merely sorry.

Inexplicably, Shuuhei thought back to an incident many years ago, the death of Shiba Kaien. He remembered that Shiba and Kuchiki had been close, remembered the circumstances in which Kuchiki had had to kill Shiba herself. And then he truly understood. He was not the only one who knew.

"Thank you," he said. Looking at her, he could not help but think of Abarai, and that was understandable; what he could not understand was how he thought of Matsumoto, too, and Iba and, somehow, Ikari. Not until he just took a breath and went on. "I... think I have gained more than I have lost."

It was Kuchiki's turn to be silent. Then, finally, she nodded. "I see," she said quietly, and Shuuhei knew that it was not a pained quiet or an angry quiet, but just a quiet, inexplicable and hers. She walked off again, and as she passed him, just a bit too close by accident (he was sure, there could be no other explanation), her hand brushed his.

For the next hour, Shuuhei found it difficult to concentrate; he kept on looking at his hand and having to suppress a grin.

_There's a place I go / when I'm alone_

As he walked away from Ukitake, waving a careless hand, Shuuhei grinned.

If he were at all able to take peoples' concern less seriously, Shuuhei would have been amused by Ukitake's. If he had been more cynical, he would have thought it contrived. But while Shuuhei did not know, he was able to believe: Ukitake's kindness was simple and natural. There were no whys and wherefores: it just was. That was, it struck him, something Ukitake had said to him: "_Sometimes, things just happen for no good reason. We can drag ourselves down and down searching for the whys and wherefores, and we'll never find them; or else we can just move on with our lives."_ He had said this with an odd, far-away look in his eyes, and Shuuhei had really understood, _Ukitake-taichou is thousands of years old._

Spending time in Ukitake's company was relaxing, even if Shuuhei did suspect that those bite-sized pieces of wisdom were careful, subtle attempts at _making him feel better_; it was because while actually in Ukitake's company, those suspicions invariably melted away. Shuuhei always left feeling inexplicably more grateful and generous towards the world. He felt safe around Ukitake, and even after he left, he carried the memory of that safety around with him, like a pendant on his neck.

But—the thought struck him as suddenly as a bird of prey swooping down upon a rabbit—it was more than that.

It wasn't just the memories, wasn't just the investment in the past—it was the knowledge that he would see Ukitake again, and they would talk, and Shuuhei would smile and laugh and something deep in him would unwind. It was the investment in the future.

All the small understandings of the past days came together in a flash, and seeing it, Shuuhei felt both very small and very large—ready to rise to anything in his insignificance.

Shuuhei was used to hurt and loss; that was not a statement of melodrama, but one of fact. He had lost his life, first—the recollections of it were unclear, but Shuuhei knew that it had been painful. He had not drifted off to the sleep which, he had discovered, was not quite eternal; he had been torn away. From what, he did not know any more.

There had been his gang, in Rukongai. The 69th was one of the worse districts, so it was unsurprising that the children whom he had banded together with—children like his, his very first friends in death—had disappeared one by one. Disappeared; that was how they thought of it, in Rukongai and Sereitei both. Many found it silly, to call it _the second death_.

Besides, to call it death implied too strong an affection, an attachment. It was just a disappearance. Missed, but not mourned.

Then, in the academy, he had lost Kanisawa and Aoga. He still went to visit their graves; nobody knew. That was how it was. Shuuhei didn't raise his voice in the silence; the light of any candles in the dark was meant to be seen by him alone. He thought sometimes that, perhaps, it was a sort of selfishness, the only selfishness he would allow himself—to take his grief and hold it close, refusing to share it with the world.

But this time, he hadn't had the choice to say no.

Tousen's betrayal—Ichimaru's, Aizen's betrayal—was a public affair. Everybody knew. There was no hiding; the light burned unrelentingly, consuming all the barriers Shuuhei might set up. Abarai, with the awkwardly worried questions he had asked, at first before realizing that Shuuhei was—and, though he didn't realize it, _making_ Shuuhei—fine; he knew. Matsumoto, all uncanny perception and overflowing kindness, and good-natured threats, knew. Kira knew, too, in a way that the others didn't, and Kira made Shuuhei want to burn brighter than ever before. Ikari, Iba, Ukitake, they all knew. And Kuchiki knew, and she had shown Shuuhei just how deeply they _all_ knew.

Shuuhei was not used to people knowing. When he was truly honest with himself, he acknowledged what lay at the heart of it: he was afraid of other people seeing, afraid that they might turn away and laugh. But they hadn't—he knew that now, and he thought that maybe he might hide less in the future. He had thought they would wrench it away from him and tell him he was stupid and that he was a fool. But they hadn't, and Shuuhei knew now that he _was_ a fool, just not in the way that he had feared. Everybody smiled, and everybody asked, and everybody talked and everybody _saw_; everybody _knew_—Shuuhei wasn't used to that.

But perhaps, he thought, it was a good thing.


End file.
